


guess I'd rather hurt than feel nothing at all

by Keira_63



Series: Need You Now [1]
Category: ITV Victoria, ITV Victoria (2016), Victoria (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Companion piece to 'I don't know how I can do without', Episode The Green-Eyed Monster, F/M, I hope to be back to happy endings soon, I'm so sorry, Lord M POV, Lord M gives me so many feelings, Love, Older Man/Younger Woman, Spoilers for Episode: s02 e02 The Green-Eyed Monster, Vicbourne
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-26 05:30:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12052320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keira_63/pseuds/Keira_63
Summary: The Queen’s presence is the most exquisite torture, but in these twilight days of his life William finds that it is worth the pain to help her once more and make her smile.





	guess I'd rather hurt than feel nothing at all

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own any of the historical characters in Victoria nor do I own the TV series which was written by Daisy Goodwin. Any lines from the show are also not mine and are just borrowed from Daisy Goodwin and ITV Victoria. Any recognisable lines belong to Daisy Goodwin and the TV series.
> 
> I usually prefer to write happy ending Vicbourne stories but last week's episode just gave me so many feelings about Lord M that I had to write this. There will hopefully be a return to happy endings soon.
> 
> I tried not to Albert-bash, but I'm not hugely fond of his character in the show and there was a lot of conflict between him and Victoria in this episode, so this isn't a particularly Albert-friendly story.

_‘Guess I’d rather hurt than feel nothing at all.’_

 

_Need You Now – Lady Antebellum_

 

* * *

 

The letters are harmless, he thinks.

 

They are careful to keep politics out of them. Instead they write about his greenhouse; the rooks at Brocket Hall; anecdotes from court; the books they have read; and the events she has attended.

The Queen’s letters sometimes read as if the writer is disheartened, and so he tries to write cheerfully to her even when his own spirits are low. He includes amusing little stories and praises her when he hears of her success – her speech at the celebration of Trafalgar is well-lauded and he is proud of her, for she has always had a good sense for such things.

Her letters to him often include sketches and paintings of her surroundings, and though it makes him more than a little nostalgic for the days when he visited the palace daily he still enjoys receiving them, for as he told her on the day of their first meeting, she has a keen eye for detail.

The lack of politics in their correspondence does not affect him, for politics has only interested him these past few years because of the Queen, and now that he is no longer her Prime Minister he has become as apathetic towards government and the House as he was towards the end of William IV’s reign.

 

The glaring gap that does disturb and concern him, however, is the lack of mentions her husband and child receive in the letters the Queen sends him.

There are a few references to dislike of the state of pregnancy, and one or two about the baby, but since his departure from office her letters have never included her husband, though his always begin with a customary inquiry about her own health and that of the prince and baby princess.

He wonders if this missing aspect is out of respect for his feelings or if there is a deeper reason. He almost hopes for the former as the latter suggests problems in the royal marriage and the one thing he has never wanted the Queen to be is unhappy.

 

He wonders sometimes if he should stop writing, but that sort of self-control is beyond him at the moment.

 

* * *

 

_Dear Lord M, it’s time for you to return to the palace._

 

When the invitation arrives William has half a mind to refuse it.

His health isn’t what it once was despite living almost entirely in the fresh country air now, and he has begun to tire so easily recently.

Then there is the idea of facing the Queen in person once more, of being assaulted by memories he has enough difficulty keeping at bay even when he is out of London.

But he senses that this is an event she truly wishes him to attend. Her letters have often included invitations for him to visit London, but they have been casually inserted into her letters and he has felt no guilt in refusing them. This is something else, though, a formal invitation with a personal note from the Queen.

He wants to see her. A talk like old times is not possible, but he thinks they may be able to recapture some of the magic that made his years as Prime Minister so special.

He writes to her with his acceptance before he can change his mind, and he hopes that he isn’t making a mistake.

 

* * *

 

_“Tell me, Lord M, do you find me much changed?”_

_“Only for the better, Ma’am.”_

 

The Queen looks beautiful and the expression of genuine pleasure on her face at his presence makes the difficult journey (for his ailments seem to increase by the day) more than worth it.

Prince Albert is … well he is polite, if rather cold and with an air of disapproval about him. William thinks he and the Prince are too different to ever be truly comfortable with each other, and their feelings towards the Queen will always make even a semblance of friendship hard.

It is easier when the Prince has been called away, and if he thinks that the Queen also relaxes slightly then surely he is only imagining it.

Before now he has been wondering why he ever accepted an invitation to such an event, for mathematics and science have never been his forte, but all he has to do is look at the Queen (also a little out of her depth with such scientific people) and he knows that despite the unease it is all worth it to see her and bring her some level of relief.

 

\--------------------

 

He finds himself walking around the room with the Queen once the ballet is over. 

“May I enquire after the Princess, Ma’am?”

“She is just like her father … only noisier.”

There is a current of discontent in the Queen’s voice, the sense that she is finding motherhood difficult. He does not blame her – she is so young and he knows she had wanted more time before her first child. There was a reason, after all, that he had thought it better for her to wait a few more years before marriage, one that was not a selfish desire to keep close to her for a while longer.

He changes the topic, hoping that talk of her husband might improve her mood a little.

“The Prince seems very animated this evening … is that Lady Lovelace with him?”

He should have expected the lady mathematician’s presence, but somehow he has not and her appearance is rather a shock, an unpleasant reminder of Byron.

Lady Lovelace resembles her mother more but there is a little something in her manner that reminds him of Byron, and thoughts of _that_ man are not where he wants his mind to wander. His fist clenches despite his casual tone when he mentions the poet to the Queen.

He is sorry to have brought the topic up when he realises that the Queen had not known whose child Lady Lovelace is, sorry to have put that hurt look in her eyes.

Maybe, he thinks, he should not have come tonight.

He does not believe the lady has any designs on Prince Albert that are not purely based on their shared interest in mathematics, but he more than most can understand the Queen’s worry and he does not think that she is in the mind-set to hear a rational explanation of why her fear is unfounded, so for the moment he lets the subject drop.

 

\--------------------

 

The Othello recitation is quite marvellous and the Queen clearly agrees, praising the talented Mr Aldridge before Lord Alfred leads the actor away to meet some of the other guests.

“I have never understood why Othello has to smother poor Desdemona,” says the Queen.

“That’s because you’ve never experienced the green-eyed monster, Ma’am. Jealousy is the most tedious emotion.”

He tries to smile but he imagines the expression looks rather pained. Emma looks incredulously at him and he supposes he is being a bit of a hypocrite. He had been rather jealous of Byron when the poet had stolen Caroline away, despite the dire state of his marriage, and the jealousy he has felt towards Prince Albert (though hidden from the Queen) has been immense.

“Tedious, oh I think it is more than that, William,” his friend says knowingly.

They share a glance that reminds him that Emma knows exactly how he feels.

“Please excuse me,” the Queen’s voice cuts through the silence before she turns and hurries away.

  
He watches her go, surprised at her abrupt departure and hoping there is nothing amiss.

“Tedious,” Emma repeats, “honestly, William, what were you thinking?”

He shrugs and gives her a half-smile, “Jealousy _is_ a tedious emotion, Emma, the cause of so much trouble in literature and plays.”

Emma rolls her eyes at him, “I would think that you of all people, William, would not trivialise _that_ emotion.”

“Jealousy is not the most ideal emotion for a Queen,” he reminds Emma, “it will bring her nothing good – best that she thinks it is an irrelevant emotion that is beneath her.”

“Still trying to help, William.”

He sighs, for he cannot help but fall back into the role that he played when he was Prime Minister. If there cannot be any repeat of romantic meanings hidden beneath flowers and stories of Elizabeth I then he can at least try and advise her as best as he can.

 

Emma shakes her head but seems to decide to drop the topic for one that irks him even more – his health.

“You do not look at all well, William,” she says, eying him carefully as if cataloguing every possible indication of illness.

“I am quite well,” he insists, exerting himself to appear as if his words are the truth.

Emma has a sharp gaze, though, and he feels the need to escape from her scrutiny.

“Ah, look,” he tells her, “there is Sir Robert Peel – the Duchess of Buccleuch seems to be hounding the poor fellow, I should go and say hello.”

He walks off before Emma has chance to answer, but he hears her muttered words – “you’ve never seemed particularly eager to speak with Robert Peel before this” – as he makes his way towards Sir Robert, who has seen him coming and looks immensely relieved.

He chats about nothing much in particular with the new Prime Minister, before moving round the room to speak with Lord Alfred and a few others, both to avoid Emma and to try and assuage her worries. It is a little odd, being able to choose who to speak with rather than having to mingle with everyone as he used to when he was Prime Minister. A nice break, really, for it was always exhausting, tiresome work.

 

When he passes by the Queen a little later, he is concerned about her, for she appears somewhat agitated.

“Are you alright, Ma’am, you look a little pale?”

She smiles at him, though the expression does not seem particularly happy, “quite alright,” she tells him, walking away swiftly and leaving him in no doubt that she is certainly not ‘quite alright’.

But he has no chance to find her and see if he can discover what is wrong. A few minutes later he can feel himself getting a little dizzy and he needs to escape the crowded, stuffy room.

 

Unfortunately he only gets a few minutes of peace before he is interrupted by King Leopold.

The Queen’s uncle appears determined to be as much of a nuisance to William now as he was before the Queen married Prince Albert and when William was still Prime Minister.

He refuses to show any panic when King Leopold reveals that he is aware of William’s communication with the Queen, though he knows that if the letters stop it will be like a knife to his heart.

Instead he makes the letters out to be frivolous things about the Duchess of Buccleuch’s hair (absolutely all artificial, he had told the Queen in a letter three weeks previously) rather than precious papers reminiscing about the past, swapping opinions on literature (they never will agree on Dickens but he thinks he may have sparked an interest in philosophy within her) and him just trying to support her in any way he can, even from a distance.

Leopold is suspicious as always, but William makes his excuses and goes to leave. He is sorry not to say goodbye to the Queen but perhaps it is for the best.

 

And then her voice cuts through thoughts that are beginning to be gloomy.

“Lord M!”

He turns to see her, half running, half walking towards him.

“Were you going to leave without saying goodbye?”

He does not like the hurt look on her face and offers his feeble excuse.

“Well you were busy, Ma’am, and it’s getting late.”

Oh how he wants to stay and talk with her as they did in the old days. But he truly is tired, and this is no longer his place, no matter what wishes he might make in the dark of the night.

 

“You used to be such a night owl.”

“I used to be a lot of things, Ma’am.”

The words are out of his mouth before he can stop himself and he only hopes that the Queen has not detected the hint of bitterness and sorrow in his statement.

He has always known that all things come to an end, and he is usually quite happy to accept that. But he does miss those days with her, when her unfailing energy enlivened him and teaching her made politics interesting once more.

He used to be so many things to her and now he is … well he is not nothing to her, but it will never be the same, he will never be everything to her as he thinks he perhaps was for a short time.

It is not her fault, it is only the nature of things. She had to marry and her husband could not be him, no matter how much he (and she) might have wanted it.

He used to be a lot of things – night owl, Prime Minister, confidant, everything to a girl Queen.

Now he is a willing exile at Brocket Hall, and while he is still Lord M to her, still her friend, he cannot help but remember the time when he was all that and so much more.

 

“I hope you will stay in London,” she says, startling him out of his thoughts, “there are so many things I wish to discuss.”

“No, No, I … I really must get back to Brocket Hall. It’s orchid season, you know, and I find they are very demanding … Goodnight Ma’am.”

 

She looks at him properly then and he thinks she understands why he has to go.

But he knows he will send her some orchids from his greenhouse, however foolish it may be, and she will wear them no matter the lecture her uncle may give her.

“Goodnight Lord M.”

 

* * *

 

He spends most of his days now in his greenhouse.

Too much time, his servants think – they worry that he’s working too hard but he finds that the greenhouse keeps him in a more cheerful mood during the day, and if he can find a good book during the evening then he does not miss the fullness and delight of his life as Prime Minister to the Queen quite as much.

Deep down he knows that this is the twilight of his life, and sometimes not even his greenhouse, library and letters from the Queen can cheer him. His visit to London and attendance at the palace lifted his spirits but it also reminded him forcefully of what he has lost.

 

He cannot fault her for being happy with her husband, not when he was the one who would not accept her love and told her to bestow it on someone worthy.

… oh but if he had the right to love her publicly then he would do so with as much devotion (or more) as he loves her now in the privacy of his own heart.

For he loves her still and he will love her, he knows, until the day his heart stops beating.

 

* * *

 

He hears the door of the greenhouse open behind him but does not lift his eyes from his work.

“Close the door,” he calls out.

He ignores the footsteps, assuming it is the butler bringing more tea that he will only remember to drink once it is stone cold.

“You have created your own Eden, Lord M.”

He turns to face her in shock. What can she be thinking, to visit him like this? There is more respectability now that she is married, but stories might still circulate and he does not want her to suffer such things so soon after giving birth.

“Yes, it is something of a refuge, Ma’am,” he answers as he attempts to school his face into a more neutral expression.

 

She is here.

He cannot quite believe that she is actually in front of him.

He saw her at the palace so recently, but this is now a far more intimate meeting and he … he is not sure he is prepared for this.

The Queen’s presence is the most exquisite torture, but William finds that it is worth the pain to just have the chance to see her.

 

She asks about the Venus Fly Trap and this is something he can do, something he knows.

He explains to her and gives a demonstration as she looks on, fascinated.

“Why would anything so deadly be named after the goddess of love?” she asks him.

“I wonder,” he answers with a hint of wistfulness.

She is no longer the naïve Queen barely crowned, but William sees an innocence in her still.

She does not yet understand that love can be deadly and he hopes that she never has to. He, on the other hand, knows it only too well.

 

“Perhaps you’d allow me to show you my collection,” he says to her, keen to move away from the topic of the painful nature of love.

He is in his element here among the flowers and plants, happy to show her all the marvels in his greenhouse until she summons the courage to tell him what is wrong, for he can see that though this is a social visit, there is also something bothering her.

He has dreamt many times, almost since they met, of showing the Queen his greenhouse. And he does not waste the opportunity now, relishing in her interest and questions.

Finally, though, she brings up the reason for her visit.

 

“I have come to ask your advice.”

And oh he must be so careful here, must not do anything that might get back to King Leopold or Sir Robert Peel and jeopardise their ability to correspond.

“I am no longer in politics, Ma'am, it would be wrong for me to advise you.”

“That’s not the kind of advice I need,” she tells him, “I want to talk to you about … marriage.”

He almost laughs out loud, “well, there too, I’m hardly qualified.”

“We’ll, I’ve come to you, nevertheless,” she says and he marvels in the trust she shows in him.

 

They walk a little and she explains the position as she pulls off her hat and gloves (he cannot blame her, for the greenhouse is always so warm).

The Queen takes a seat, “he wants us to have a big family, as does uncle Leopold of course. But I’m afraid, Lord M, why does Albert want us to have more children? Is it so that I will always be out of the way and he can be king?”

She asks for his advice and so he gives it. He is no authority on marriage, but he does know the Queen – her talents and flaws, the way she thinks, how strong she is.

“Do you remember when you asked for the title of King Consort for the Prince?” he asks gently.

She nods, “you said that once people got into the way of making kings they would get into the way of unmaking them.”

“Yes, well there was another reason,” he admits, “I did not want you to be overshadowed, Ma’am. Yes, the Prince is your husband but you are the Queen.”

“He thinks he would do it better.”

She sounds so uncertain and William feels a surge of dislike towards Prince Albert for making this magnificent Queen lose her confidence.

“Well he wouldn’t be the first man to underestimate a woman, would he?”

“He’s so able,” she counters, “there are so many things I’ve never been taught.”

“Knowledge is not wisdom, Ma’am. You have an instinct for what you must hold on to.”

And he means it with all his heart. Prince Albert is an intelligent man who will no doubt do great things for the country, but he remains, when not surrounded by scientists or those he knows well, a cold, unsociable man often unable to connect with the people. The Queen, warm and interested in their small concerns, knows far more about the human aspects of ruling than the Prince, and William thinks that in a constitutional monarchy it is her skills that will see the monarchy through the years rather than Prince Albert’s.

 

“I find it hard. The other evening when Albert was talking to Lady Lovelace about decimal places he looked so happy.”

Now he thinks she is ready to hear what she would not have listened to the night of his visit to London – that Prince Albert may have flaws but a tendency to stray is not, he thinks, one of them.

“Oh come now, aren’t such suspicions beneath you? Besides, if a man is intent on flirtation then in my experience he does not tend to resort to mathematics.”

She laughs then and he is so glad that he has improved her mood.

“I’ve missed you, Lord M,” she says with such a sincere look on her face that he feels close to tears, “you always know how to make me feel better.”

“Well I’m glad to hear it.”

His response is cheerfully flippant but her words mean everything to him.

To know that he is truly missed and trusted even now she has her clever husband is a balm to the pain that his separation from her has caused.

And he knows how genuine she is in her affections, a quality he has always admired in her.

If he is not long for this world then at least he will go knowing that he is valued by the woman he loves.

 

She suddenly stands quickly, “I think I need some air.”

“Yes it is very hot in here,” he replies, worried that he has kept her too long in the greenhouse heat she is unused to.

“I fear it is more than that,” she tells him, and suddenly he understands.

Another pregnancy.

His mind goes to his own children – poor Augustus whose too short life had been so hard, and the little girl too ill to live more than a day – and, though he sets little store by God, for the Queen he will pray for another healthy child and safe delivery.

Still, she must feel so stifled and trapped and though he admires the Prince in some ways he does curse the man’s seeming inability to realise how distressing this situation must be for the Queen.

 

He takes a slight step forwards and tells himself it is so he can assist her if she should feel faint and not because he relishes the chance to be close to her once more.

Then he takes her hands in his, trying not to think of the last time he did so, when she was a new bride and he saying goodbye.

It probably isn’t proper, but when has their relationship ever been at all close to the conventional one a sovereign and Prime Minister usually share?

All he knows he needs to offer further comfort, to reassure her in the way that her husband has not yet learnt to do.

“You are the sovereign, Ma’am. We are your subjects. Whatever trials you may endure, nothing will ever change that.”

She smiles and he feels his advice has done its work.

 

The Queen leaves with a more relaxed countenance and he is glad, so glad to have helped her.

But as she leaves the aches and pains her presence seemed to vanish now come back in full force.

He sends his butler for the doctor and wonders idly if he will see the Queen again before his time is up.

Victoria is gone from his presence and melancholy thoughts plague him once more.

 

* * *

 

The doctor is here and William listens with apathy as the man describes a regime that sounds almost as depressing as the illness it is meant to cure.

“Ugly brutes, aren’t they?” he says absent-mindedly as he looks at the leeches on his arms, “this one looks uncommonly like the Honourable Member for Ridlington.”

The doctor seems a little startled by his attempt at humour, but what, thinks William, is life without a little fun?

The butler enters and William goes to dismiss him, for he does not like his servants to see this sort of thing – it only makes them bother him more to rest and stay out of the greenhouse.

“The letter is from the palace, My Lord.”

He looks up and his eyes brighten, but he cannot summon the energy to read the letter from the Queen, to deal with the mix of pleasure and pain that her correspondence always brings him, “oh yes … leave it there, would you. I’ll attend to it when I’m ready.”

He sighs to himself. He is so tired.

 

* * *

_I regret to say, Ma’am, that I cannot come to London at the present. I fear you will be disappointed, but I am not the one to help you now._ _You must look to the future. The Prince is a man of great understanding. He knows, I am sure, that his work is to support you, not supplant you. I am sure that when you reflect you will see that you must go forward, together._

_Please put away your suspicions. I would wager the contents of my orchid house on the Prince’s devotion to you alone._

 

It hurts to write the letter even though he knows it is necessary.

As he prepared her for his resignation following her marriage, so he now prepares her for the time when he will no longer be able to give her any advice at all.

He does not want to be ill. He does not want to perhaps be dying. But the inevitable must be accepted, no matter how distasteful, and if he is a hopeless case himself then the least he can do is try and make the process easier for the Queen.

 

He’ll not be able to pull back entirely, for the Queen is one of the few things left in his life that can make him smile, but he can do something to try and ease her into the idea that he might be gone for good soon.

He hopes that she will take his advice to heart. If he can know that she will be alright then he will feel so much better.

If he knows that she will be fine then he can go with no regrets.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Hope you enjoyed it.


End file.
